Long Time Ahead
by Kyron
Summary: Fanfic100 challenge. Pairing: Ironhide and Ratchet. Based on a series of prompts and is not chronologically arranged. Contains slash, please heed rating. Current prompt: Not Enough
1. Death

**Pairing: Ratchet/Ironhide (Movie)**

**Notes: Spoilers below. This is part of a fanfic100 challenge. **

**Death.**

For all his professional demeanor, Ratchet can't stand to lose patients. You can't realize what it puts him through. No one can. He'll never tell.

The only reason I've been privy to this bit of knowledge was because I found out by accident. A literal accident, actually. We used to work with this mech who was quite fond of anything that exploded and well, it's a long story. So, was I surprised to walk into the temp base and find a blade at my neck? Absolutely not.

Ratchet stood there, stock still, his arm around my neck and his weapon unwavering. I just stopped and waited. It was like this sometimes and this time was probably going to be worse. I could disarm him, turn the situation around in a nano-click but it'd only serve to make things harder. A lot harder. And harder is not something Ratchet needed right now. No, he's running on anger and he doesn't even realize it.

The entire warehouse was silent. It was quiet enough that I could hear the hydraulics in Ratchet's hands as they tensed, I could hear the faint whine that accompanied a weapon charge. Still, he didn't move but I could tell, he was ready to snap.

"Ratchet." I tried, quietly as I could. The weapon twitched at his hand, his arm tightened around my neck but he made no further moves. He's got himself worked up real good this time.

"C'mon, Ratchet. It's just me." I try again. Again, a marginal flex in cables and lines but this time, he pulls away. I take a glance over my shoulder in time to see a flash of color backing off into the darkest corner available in the room. Another glance, this time to the opposite end of the building. There, lying on a makeshift table, was Jazz. The Lt. was whole once more, minus several pieces of armor. But it didn't matter. He was already gone before we could get to him.

The kid had done well, though. Damn well. Prime made a good choice in selecting this one. I'll be honest, I had my doubts. Young, impulsive and innately curious but at the same time, one of the most loyal mechs I've met. Not just to the cause but to his friends. All the time, it had been Jazz who'd repeatedly petitioned for us to go after Bumblebee when he got captured. It had been Jazz who'd taken Megatron further from the Cube. And it had been Jazz who sacrificed himself to ensure the mission didn't fail.

I turn my back on the scene and let it go. I've been around a while and seen this more than I'd care to count. It's unfortunate that good mechs had to die, many of them just finding their potential. But it happens. All we can do is keeping pushing forward and try to stop it from happening again.

Ratchet, however, couldn't -wouldn't- let it go. He refused to and it destroyed him every single time he lost just one patient, regardless of how many survived. You could see it now. He wasn't making any moves to hide the fact that it hurt. He sat, huddled as small as he could, in the darkest corner in the furthest spot away from the table that he could get to without leaving the building. He looked miserable. I moved over quietly and sat down next to him. We sat for several minutes, neither moving, neither speaking, until he eventually spoke up.

"I thought that if I fixed the damage that maybe…" he started, vocalizer barely powering on. He did this every time, every single time. He fixed what was broken, knowing full well that it wouldn't help but wanting to try. A tenacity I admired but at the same time, wanted to pity. Jazz wouldn't be the exception to the rule that good mechs die, just another number, another name to add to the very long list of those who had passed before.

Humans call it death. The passing of one from existence to something else. The closest thing we call it is "extinguished". Our sparks, our souls, fade until we no longer exist. Our bodies are all that will remain behind. Ratchet has never been good at handling it. Never. I don't suspect that he ever will be.

It's times like this that I wish this pit-forsaken war was over and done with. Every time a mech dies, so does a small part of the medic. And there's nothing I can do about it.


	2. Children

**The Outting**

"I'm warning you, Ironhide…"

"Ratchet, calm down a second!"

Another brick flew across the building and smashed itself against the opposite wall. Ironhide had hid himself, somewhat ineffectively, behind an overturned workbench.

"Slag off! Don't come over here with this…this bullshit and expect me to just go with it!"

The use of a human swear did little to deter the large black Autobot. He'd come here with a request and he wasn't leaving until he got a viable answer. Preferably the one he wanted.

"I'm just saying-" CRASH "-Fraggit, Ratchet! Stop trying to take my head off!"

Ratchet glowered from his position at the opposite workbench. He had a very large pile of busted bricks and timbers that had been collected from the dilapidated form of their current hideout. It had been built up for disposal but, for the moment, it made a great weapons cache.

"Oh, I haven't even -begun- to try that yet, 'Hide. But when I do, I guarantee it will be messy." He picked up another piece, this one of metal, and threw it across the room. The resounding crash echoed as it smashed through an old, dirty window.

Ironhide ducked ineffectively behind the table, silently cursing himself for approaching Ratchet with -anything- when he was in a mood. 'Too late now.' he mused, mentally preparing himself for another attempt to calm the CMO. He raised his head just over the lip of the table. Another projectile flew just micrometers from his head as he ducked back down.

"You've got a processor glitch!" he'd said, mostly to himself. Unfortunately, Ratchet's hearing was as good as his sense of smell.

"Me? Ironhide, did you even -consider- what you just asked me to do?"

"Of course I did. I thought you'd enjoy an outting is all." Ironhide replied from his covered position. He hunkered down and braced for another projectile but after a few moments, nothing flew over. Cautiously, he peered over the edge of the table. Ratchet was just standing there, giving the weapons specialist a slightly shocked look.

"An outting?" he repeated, skeptical.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Ironhide summoned a bit of courage and stood up behind his shield.

"When was the last time you left this warehouse for more than necessary? For longer than a bream or two?"

Ratchet stood quietly for several moments and Ironhide waited on a "hair trigger", so to speak. Ratchet was unpredictable when he was in a bad way and it never hurt to be prepared to save one's cranium from his pitching arm.

Eventually, Ratchet locked in Ironhide's look.

"Explain this to me. One more time."

Ironhide's tense pneumatic systems released pent up pressure in a loud hiss and he explained the situation again, choosing his words very carefully to avoid another outburst.

The CMO thought on it for another moment or two.

"There's going to be human protoforms there?" he'd asked.

"Only one or two…"

* * *

Captain Lennox's daughter's third birthday party was a huge success. Sarah Lennox had ensured that all the neighborhood children were there. The fact that there was an ambulance on hand with bright colors and flashing lights delighted the kids to the point of wearing themselves out early and were back with their parents before the real sugar rush kicked in.

Ironhide had sat in the yard with Ratchet. Leaving the CMO to the "tender mercies" of this many kids hadn't honestly been on the game plan and if he'd left, he'd have slag to pay for it later. After all the children had left and the two Autobots were alone in the yard, Ironhide spoke.

"You okay, Ratch?"

An angry growl from an engine answered him before the green mech spoke.

"You…have about a bream left in existence."

"C'mon, Ratchet! I didn't know there were that many around!"

The green Humvee had numerous spaces covered in icing and ice cream. There had been streamers tied to his bumpers and grill, but the key decoration had been the rendition of Ironhide drawn on the drivers side door. The little Lennox girl did that. Unfortunately, it was in permanent marker.

The sound of a blade being drawn brought Ironhide back to facing a rather irate medic. Ratchet had managed to draw his side arm blade while in vehicle form.

"How in the Pit--" Ironhide started just as the blade began spinning up.

"Less than a bream, 'Hide." Ratchet threatened, starting forward, letting his rear tires spin in the grass.

Ironhide hadn't survived as long as he had by being stupid. He quickly threw himself in reverse and backed out of the yard and onto the street, grill constantly facing the saw wielding medic.

"Oh, stop it Ratchet! You glitch!"

"I'll show you a glitch here in a few moments!"

Ironhide spun himself around in the nearest intersection and floored it away from the Humvee who was swearing in every language he knew the whole time.

The big Topkick just -hoped- he made it back to the warehouse in one piece.


	3. Lovers

**Lovers**

It had started out as a form of stress release. It was a given that one could walk away from the other at any time. It was kept private, meetings and tryst kept secret from the rest of the Ark's crew. Over time, however, things had changed. He was no longer so sure he'd just be able to walk away, if he even could…or wanted to.

One black arm wrapped itself around a green and black waist, holding the slumbering body securely to its own. He listened to the thrum of the other's systems as they slowed from overload, his own still working on a similar level. Ironhide regarded the head that currently rested on his shoulder. Ratchet had fallen offline quickly, mostly from the overload but also from the fact that he'd been working himself into the ground. It was a comforting thought to Ironhide that Ratchet trusted him on this level. The medic was always wary of letting his guard down for more than a moment, yet, here he was. It was complete trust, complete familiarity that allowed him to relax with the large mech.

Ironhide leaned his head against Ratchet's, feeling his own weariness pull at his at him like an anchor. He felt his systems begin the shutdown sequence for stasis and allowed himself to drift off., his arm staying around the medic even as he relaxed into his own recharge. The medic shifted slightly in his sleep, as if trying to burrow into Ironhide's side. The black mech felt himself smile just slightly as he moved to accommodate the other mech before the last program action sent him offline as well. This was why he couldn't walk away. Not now, not ever again.


	4. Friends

**Friends**

"They haven't acted like this in a long time." Ironhide commented, drawing Ratchet's concentration away from his knee joint. Both mechs were currently seated in make-shift "chairs" with Ironhide's leg held up in Ratchet's lap as he worked. The black mech flinched as the welder came close to sensitive wires.

"Hold still." the medic groused. He finished his current task of repairing a minor stress fracture in Ironhide's knee before acknowledging what had been said.

"Who's been acting like what?" Ratchet asked, placing the welder on the table.

He took a quick glance around the room, finding it empty except for them. Ironhide simply gave him a dark chuckle and a shake of the head. Next thing the medic knew, he was hit from two different directions by strange projectiles, making him nearly jump from his seat. The sounds of two others laughing and running in separate directions told him everything he needed to know about the perpetrators. With a resigned sigh, he bent and picked up one of the objects that had struck him. It was of foam construction, yellow and blue in color, somewhat shaped in the form of a human arrow. The only marking on it simply said "NERF". There was another chuckle emanating from Ironhide. Ratchet gave him a scowl and tossed the little foam arrow at him, striking the weapons specialist in the head light.

"This is why they should be outside." Ratchet fussed non-heatedly.

"Yes, but you said that Jazz couldn't leave the warehouse until you gave him the clear. Besides, it's pouring outside. Water and fresh repairs-"

"I know, I know. Rust." Ratchet said, cutting him off. "I just don't get those two sometimes."

"We didn't get them then and so we won't get them now. It's just good to see this kind of behavior for once."

Ratchet didn't have to ask when "then" was. He remembered a time, before the Battle at Tyger Pax, when both Bumblebee and Jazz were fairly fresh recruits. Neither had known the other before coming to this unit but the moment they met, chaos ensued. Well, Ratchet considered it chaos. Ironhide found it funny because it got on Ratchet's nerves.

There was a flash of white and yellow that streaked through the warehouse. A few moments later, there they were again, 'Bee catching a ride on Jazz's back as Jazz ran back to the direction they came from.

Ratchet remembered seeing them do that once before. He and Ironhide had simply been outside, enjoying the calm that was Cybertron before the fighting really kicked off. They'd heard a ruckus below and leaned over to see what the noise was about. What they saw startled both of them. There were two mechs, both looked extremely young, and they were fighting. Well, it had -appeared- that they'd been fighting. Another look revealed it to be nothing more than sparkling play, though both looked well old enough to no longer be considered sparklings. One would jump on the others back and get gently dumped off onto the ground. The other then straddled the first and seemed to shock him in the side, eliciting a high pitched laughter from his captive. Then they'd be off again, tumbling around on the metal floors in an impromptu wrestling match.

"Hey! If I see either one of you in my bay for repairs from this, I'm welding both of you to the floor!" Ratchet threatened from above as the pair rolled into the balcony barrier.

Both mechs below looked up at the sound of his voice before dissolving into laughter and running back inside. Ratchet leaned back away from the rail, shaking his head.

"They're going to drive me insane, I just know it." Ratchet groused, non-heatedly.

"Oh, come on, Ratchet. I'm sure they'll be fine." Ironhide had replied.

They had been, for a while. But Jazz and Bumblebee, as they would become known, had a knack for landing themselves in Ratchet's repair bay, much to the medics chagrin. Sometimes it was for a battle injury, others it was due to recklessness. Never once had it been because they'd been playing. In fact, he hadn't seen them 'cut loose' since. After the fighting started, both seemed to mature rather quickly. So quickly in fact, that it seemed like no time at all where Jazz was promoted to First Lt. Not long after, the Allspark had been launched away from Cybertron and Bumblbee's voice had been irrevocably damaged in Tyger Pax.

Ironhide had told him once that he now feared for the two friends, worried that they may die far too young. It had already seemed like the life had fled them. The carnage left behind from the battle in Mission City only made that thought much more realistic. One had died too young.

But now, Jazz was alive and Bee's voice had started to return to normal. With these changes, it seemed, the youth was put back into them. It seemed that they were now allowed to act the part that they were denied before. And, as another projectile lodged itself in his frame - a paper airplane that held a remarkable resemblance to Starscream - he knew they were destined to drive him over a cliff. Preferably at high speeds. Ironhide simply chuckled as Ratchet placed his repaired leg on the ground, having long since finished working on it. As Ratchet stood and began stalking towards the two younger bots, Ironhide grasped him by the elbow.

"Don't hurt'em too badly, Ratchet. You'll have to fix them then."

Ratchet smiled, "Oh, don't worry 'Hide. They'll be fine." he said, walking casually across the room.

"Besides," he began, stopping in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his chest, "I was thinking of giving them upgrades. To weed eaters."

The sounds of running feet heading away from the medics general vicinity, followed by hushed whispers, eventually faded off into the furthest rooms in the warehouse. Ratchet gave Ironhide a smirk as the weapons specialist started laughing.

"You wouldn't hurt them and you know it."

"Yes, but they don't." was Ratchet's reply.

He did have to admit, it was good to have them, misbehaving or not. Things just wouldn't seem normal without it.


	5. Endings

-1**The Last Time**

"We shouldn't be doing this…" The voice was harsh and low toned, words spilling forth between the rasping sounds of intakes. They'd spoken the denial several times over and yet, each time, it was forgotten or dismissed.

Ratchet had pinned the weapons specialist against the cargo hull wall. Cooling systems worked at furious paces while pneumatics fought overpressure. Ironhide was held back by the medics hands on his shoulders while his own hands clinched at bare forearms. Movements never ceased and temperatures continued to rise. One cannon-bearing arm reached up and around the other's neck, keeping their foreheads pressed closely together. The medic shuddered as Ironhide's mental hold on him strengthened again, sending sensations like electricity as it passed along circuits. He reciprocated, letting his mind stroke the other with a fleeting touch. His companion trembled beneath his grip and tensed against the wall he was trapped upon.

"Shouldn't-" the word came out mostly as a groan as another mental jolt was sent through processors. This had originally begun as a one time ordeal, one time only. However, it had become nearly habitual, occurring with more frequency the longer they remained aboard the Ark. It was a necessity, it seemed, for the aftermath of a battle. A ship called _Ghost One_, an alien ship to them, had been destroyed and the aftermath of the crew's revelations would linger for a long time to come. They now had direction, a destination, and more importantly, hope. It was a joyous occasion and yet somber. They couldn't save the crew of the alien ship and had sustained injuries themselves in the skirmish with the Nemesis.

Ironhide had left the med bay as soon as he was capable, saying something about target practice, leaving the medic to finish with Jazz. Once the ever clever espionage specialist was repaired and resting, he'd made very short work of finding the burly warrior, intent on telling the mech to return to quarters for recharge. When he'd entered the cargo hold, however, he'd been roughly shoved into some of the packing crates. Internal alarms sounded but were immediately silenced once he recognized the familiar grip on his frame. Neither mech breathed a word, just stared. Each wore a mask of defiance and indifference but both knew that it was a matter of time before they both broke.

The link-up was quick and simultaneous, both probing and searching the other in such a manner that, to an outside observer, was brutal. But, to the two involved, it was crucial. It was the only way that both could be sure that the other was indeed safe, whether they'd admit it or not, that was always a priority. It always started this way. They'd relax marginally once they'd ensured the other was whole before allowing their systems to wander and expand in the others mind. Sometimes, they were slow, each taking the time to map out the other in the most intimate manner. Other times, they moved in fevered and frantic ways, each feeding off the others reactions, unheeding of the energies spent.

The caresses had begun as harsh and needy before softening to a lesser degree They'd scuffled only marginally, rotating on pinning or being pinned, each wanting dominance of the situation. It's how they ended up in their current situation, systems on the brink of maxing out but neither willing to give up first. Ratchet let his fingers slip around the strut of Ironhide's shoulder, brushing lightly against parts used for cannon recoil. They had been replaced recently and had yet to be completely desensitized by the repeated firing of the weapons. His captive let a raspy sound escape his vocalizer as the touch set him quivering. He felt the CMO's body react as the sensation passed over their mental barriers. Ironhide let his own hand lightly stroke his partner's neck, sending vibrations through sensitive neural circuitry. It was a 'cheater method' as Ratchet had called it, but none-the-less effective. Ratchet's optics burned bright blue, intakes wheezing as his systems overloaded. The back draft hit Ironhide quickly, pushing him over as well. Both bodies slid down to the floor as the tendrils of arcing energy raced across their frames before dissipating.

Several minutes passed and neither mech moved. The medic still had his hands gripped on Ironhide's shoulders while his partner still had one forearm and his neck within his own grasp. Eventually, both began to disentangle themselves, trying not to look at the optics of the other, and shakily stood up.

"We can't keep doing this." Ratchet said, voice soft.

"I know." came Ironhide's equally soft reply, "Last time."

"Yeah…" he paused before continuing, "You're on quarters for the next two orns. Go get some rest."

The medic turned to leave but was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist.

"Be careful." Ironhide said, voice betraying what both were unable to say.

Ratchet gave a sad smile in return.

"You too." he said, stepping away and leaving the weapons specialist alone in the cargo hold.

It had to be the last time. Neither might survive to see the next system and it was too dangerous to become attached. There could be no more of this hiding. It was the same mantra that filled him every time he left one of their trysts. Each time had been the 'last time' and yet, they always came back full circle. No, this was it…he couldn't risk anyone else in this war. He'd never be able to forgive himself if the inevitable happened sooner than expected because he'd risked someone else. Finding is own logic satisfactory for the time being, he sat on his own recharge station and started to offline, thoughts still heavy and sensors still sending ghost signals through him. He shook himself slightly, trying to rid his body of the sensations that lingered in his processor. This was the last time. It can never happen again.


	6. Rain

**Rain**

The rain fell in torrential sheets, soaking everything within minutes. Lightening streaked across the sky, closely followed by the deep bellowing rumble of the thunder. Winds whipped tree limbs and loose debris across the landscape. In the distance, the lone black truck sat, nose facing the wind. He was defiant in all things, come hell or high water, which ever was first. While tonight, it seemed, high waters -would- occur first. Repeated orders to return to the hanger had been steadfastly ignored. He remained where he was, facing down the daemons brought by the storm. Ironhide would not return to the hanger this night. Not until he had company in doing so.

Ratchet had radioed hours ago, before the storm had really hit, saying that he was stuck in traffic and would be late. Ironhide had groused and grumbled but the medic had taken it in good humor, more than used to the weapons specialist's gruff ways, and promised he'd be home soon. Reports from the human's news agencies soon began frantic broadcasts, telling the listeners and viewers that a mudslide had caught numerous vehicles. It happened on the same highway Ratchet had to take to get back to base. Ironhide had been livid, purely intent upon driving out to find the wayward medic immediately. Not even the orders of Optimus Prime mattered, he -was- going. Prime hadn't relented and the black mech knew he was in for some sort of deranged punishment detail later. But that was later. Now, all he cared about was getting to that damnable slide.

He'd driven hectically, avoiding debris and obstacles tossed in his way by the steadily increasing winds from the coastal storm. Signals were sent constantly, trying to home in on the medics systems, trying to find him. The signals bounced back, empty for the most part but eventually bringing him a faint return signal. He increased his speed, knowing he was closer to his intended target.

_:Wait: _The short burst of communications surprised him enough to take him off road and into a vacant field. It was a backup method of communications, normally only used when radio equipment was damaged.

_:Hurt?: _Ironhide sent in return.

_:No: _

_:Coming:_

_:Wait. Crowds. Returning: _the medic sent.

_:When?:_

_:Soon. Wait:_

So, Ironhide waited, sitting alone in the vacant fields as the rains poured from the skies. His last received transmission from Ratchet had seemed like vorns ago but had only been a couple of breems. He was impatient, engine idling moodily under his hood, wanting to release his frustration and meet Ratchet half way. The longer he sat there, staring down the storms above, the more irritated and worried he got. The darkened sky only seemed to match his mood more, the thunder the only thing louder than his own growling engine. Another crash of lightening and no further contact with the medic, Ironhide had enough. He pulled himself back on the road, headed to Ratchet's last transmission's origin. However, before he made it more than a few miles down the road, the familiar figure of the Rescue H2 emerged from a dark tunnel. Ironhide felt his irritation and anger slip away at the sight, pushing himself quickly forward, meeting the medic as soon as he could.

Ratchet's entire body was filthy, many parts still sporting the clingy mud or grass. The rain had washed much of the excess off but the stains remained. Dints and dings littered his armor and one of his tires seemed damaged, riding lower than its three counterparts.

"You said you weren't hurt." Ironhide said, matter-of-factly. He'd turned himself around, pulling up next to the medic as the pair made their way back to the hanger.

"I'm not." came Ratchet's terse reply.

"Then please explain-"

"I said I'm not hurt, 'Hide. It's superficial."

Superficial or not, it troubled the truck. However, given the apparent mood of his partner, he let the subject drop. For now.

Ratchet transformed immediately as they reached the base and retreated away from the lingering Ironhide, disappearing into the wash racks inside. Ironhide trumped in moments later, ignoring the smoldering anger behind Prime's look, sending him a baleful glare of his own, and proceeded to the rear of the hanger. He waited near their quarters for the medic to return from the racks. Ratchet had emerged, all lingering traces of the mud cleansed from his chassis, and made an attempt to walk past Ironhide and into the room. The black hand latched onto his arm, firm but gentle, stopping him at the threshold. Ratchet tensed immediately, ire rising, and gave the mech restraining him a cold look.

"Are you okay, Ratchet?" Ironhide asked, quietly, not at all disturbed by the glare he was receiving.

Ratchet seemed to blink owlishly at him for a moment before every bit of tenseness left his frame, his look softening with the rest of him.

"I'm fine. Honest, 'Hide. Just…tired."

The burly mech nodded, releasing his hold on Ratchet's arm.

"Go get some rest. I need to-"

"We'll deal with Prime in the morning. I saw the looks he was giving you. Leave him be for now and get your aft in here." Ratchet said, indicating to their sleeping quarters.

Ironhide didn't give the main chamber of the hanger another glance, following the weary medic into the room and sealing the door.

They laid together on the berth, Ratchet snuggling himself in Ironhide's chest while the black mech draped an arm protectively over his partners midsection. The medic had offlined almost as soon as he'd made himself comfortable. Ironhide took a few minutes more, mostly just studying the one currently curled against him. The worry was still there but it had been overshadowed by the feeling of contentment that coursed through him. Eventually, he too fell into recharge, lulled by the sound of the calming rain as it pattered overhead.


	7. Writer's Choice:  UNO

**UNO**

Ratchet glared at the small bit of multi-colored cardboard as though it would cower under his stare.

It didn't.

He narrowed his optics and glared harder.

The colorful pieces were blissfully ignorant and stubbornly refused to wither under the heat of the stare placed upon it. His gaze turned to the far-too amused mech sitting across from him.

"It's still your turn, Ratchet."

The pair had seated themselves on the floor of the hanger, tucked away near one of the corners for no reason other than to keep out of the way. Colorful cards were all around, sorted in two piles on the floor while each mech held some in their hands.

The medic glanced down at the bundle of cards in his hand and then to the single pair in Ironhide's. The odds were so stacked against him that there was practically no way he was going to walk away the winner of this game. He debated over his cards, finally settling on a red five, placing it on the pile between them. Ironhide's face contorted into what could either pass as deep thought or borderline hysteria. Quickly, he drew one of the two remaining cards from his hand, dropping it on the stack. A green number five card.

"Uno." he said.

Ratchet grumbled several uncomplimentary phrases, mostly in Cybertronian, before slapping a card down on the deck. To his surprise, Ironhide pulled from the "bone yard" pile off to the side, gaining a card before finding one that suited. Ratchet was lucky enough to hold the big mech off for two more hands before Ironhide gently placed his final card on the center pile.

"Uno out. I win."

The medic glowered, mostly at the still vast hand of cards in his hand, before tossing his hands, letting the colorful pieces scatter.

"How did I let you talk me into this ridiculous game?"

"You're the one said you could 'stomp my aft into a crater', regardless of the game…"

Ratchet narrowed his optics at the black mech. Ironhide simply gazed back, facial expression mostly neutral. The only thing that gave him away was the almost invisible smirk.

"I still might, you cheeky old glitch."

Ironhide simply chuckled, picking up the cards and recreating the deck.

"We can give that a try if you'd like, change games. Add stakes, maybe."

"I don't know about you and your games." he replied.

"You wanna be the best, Ratch. I'm giving you the opportunity to prove it."

The medic sat back and immediately took the bait.

"What kind of stakes?"

The black mech shuffled the deck of cards, taking as much time as was needed to get the medic flustered.

"'Hide…"

"If you win, I owe you a wax."

"And if you win?"

He cut the deck absently, pondering just what exactly he could ask for if he did happen to beat the medic again.

"We don't leave our quarters for a day." he said, leaving the statement open ended, letting the other mech contemplate any and all meanings behind it.

Ratchet studied the other 'bot for a few moments before taking the deck of cards from his hands. He could see that, regardless of who actually won, it was pretty much win-win for both of them.

"Best two out of three?" he asked, beginning to deal the cards.

Ironhide smirked, propping his elbows on his knees.

"You're on."


	8. Food

**The Great Fluffer-nutter Adventure**

"What…is that?" Ratchet asked, wearily eying the concoction Sam had left on the human-sized counter within the hanger.

Sam looked up, chewing on what appeared to be a second copy of whatever Ratchet was inquiring about.

"It's a sandwich, Ratchet."

The medic gave the youth a withering glare.

"I know that, Sam. But what I'm trying to figure out is, what exactly is -in- it?" he asked, showing no small amount of disgust at the sandwich's filling.

"Oh! Oh man, doc. This is the stuff that dreams are made of. Best thing to put on bread…ever. You wanna try some?" Sam replied, holding out the partially eaten combination. Part of the 'mystery filling' dripped out the side and on to the boy's jeans. Sam didn't seem to mind, just wiped it up with a finger and ate it.

Ratchet grimaced. Whatever that substance was looked about as appealing to him as a clogged manifold. Actually, it greatly resembled what was -expelled- from a clogged manifold.

"Um, no. Thanks." the medic replied, turning to finish cleaning his own workstation. Occasionally, however, his optics glanced over to the items still sitting innocently on the smaller counter. So far, the item was now on Ratchet's "Don't want to know" list even without Sam actually answering the question, but the ever curious medic couldn't seem to take his mind off of it.

With a defeated sigh, he tossed the cloth he was using down to the table's surface.

"What -is- it?"

Again Sam looked up, this time the substance was stubbornly sticking to his lower lip as he hastily worked the mouth full he was currently chewing. He wiped his mouth with his hand and rubbed the same hand on his pants leg.

"It's a combo spread. Miles got me started on this stuff years ago. He puts it on everything. I mean, I draw the line at pork chops but he-"

"Sam!" Ratchet interrupted, "Just tell me what it is."

"Oh, it's Fluffer-nutter." Sam replied, stating it as if it was obvious.

Ratchet eyed the teenager for several long moments.

"Fluffer-what?" he asked, perplexed.

"Fluffer-nutter. It's a combo between peanut butter and marshmallow cream. It's really good, Ratch." Sam explained, waving the sandwich through the air as he spoke. Some of the 'fluffer-nutter' escaped the confines of the bread and splattered on the floor, eliciting a quiet 'whoops' from the boy.

"You sure you don't wanna try it?"

"Positive." Ratchet replied, trying not to inch himself away from the sticky substance. Primus only knew what that material was capable of doing to Cybertronian systems by touch alone, much less any form of ingestion. "We don't eat organic foodstuffs, Sam."

"I know, I know. Just thought I'd offer." he replied, waving the medic off and taking another bite from his sandwich.

Ratchet suppressed another shudder, inane curiosity about the 'mystery filling' currently sated.

The sound of a familiar engines entering the hanger caused the boy to spin, an excited grin plastered on his face.

"Heya, Bee!" he exclaimed, again waving his sandwich.

The Camaro stopped a few feet from where his charge was seated, followed closely by the white Solstice.

"Sam? What is that?" Bumblebee asked, curiously.

"Trust me, you don't want to look at it too closely…" mumbled Ratchet.

The yellow mech either didn't hear him or wasn't paying any attention, more likely to be the latter, and peered at the proffered sandwich that Sam had displayed at the question.

"Fluffernafber." he said, mouth full of the sticky substance.

"Flipper-what?" the Camaro asked. Ratchet, meanwhile, felt he was listening to the past five minutes on repeat. Something he'd really rather not hear twice.

Sam swallowed his food and tried again.

"Fluffer-nutter."

"Eh?" Jazz asked, peeking over his partner's shoulder, "Man, that looks like bad axle grease rolled in dirt. How do you -eat- that?"

"Hey now, no need to insult the food of the gods. Try some."

"No way. That stuff looks like it'll clog anything it touches. Keep it away from me."

Sam gave a wicked grin and stood, thrusting the sandwich out before him as he stalked towards Jazz. The Solstice inched away, not wanting any part of that horrendous looking concoction to get anywhere near his paint.

"C'mon, Jazz! I thought you'd try anything once?"

"Yes, but not at the expense of my fuel tanks or their contents. I'm actually rather shocked that your tanks can hold that mess." Jazz replied, taking another step back. "I'm not sure I'd even use that stuff for target practice, much less sustenance."

Sam, who apparently had enough of this 'food of the gods' insulted in such a manner, immediately took a defensive stance.

"I'll show you 'target practice'…" he said, playfully, and quickly chucked the partial sandwich at the white mech.

The boy had been close enough that the sandwich would have struck the mech at the chest. However, Jazz had ducked and twisted out of the projectile's way. It landed soon after with a resoundingly sticky "smack". Right against Ironhide's fender.

The boy froze, eyes wide. Jazz and Bumblebee had the decency to cringe before laughing. Ratchet simply put his hand over his face and shook his head. No good could come of this. The sandwich then slid, quite slowly, down the black paint, leaving a glaring and chunky path along the way, until it finally fell free and landed on the floor. The truck sat stock still. He'd simply been watching the rather amusing exchange, having arrived with the two youngest mechs, and had unwittingly become the target of what humans might call 'friendly fire'.

"For the love of all things holy, Ironhide, do -not- transform. I'm not cleaning that gunk out of your gears…" Ratchet said, voice muffled by his hand.

Sam gulped as the engine set off a low toned growl. The sound slowly gained volume and the truck inched towards the boy.

"And don't kill the kid." he added as an afterthought.

"Eh heh….hoo boy. I'm…gunna go get a towel now." Sam said, quickly fleeing the room.

Jazz and Bumblebee received a pointed "glare" from the truck, prompting the two chuckling mechs to leave as well.

"Ratchet?" Ironhide asked, voice surprisingly calm.

"Yes?" the medic replied.

"What is this stuff?"

Ratchet groaned.

"You don't want to know, 'Hide."


	9. Touch

**Tattoos and Tailgates**

Ironhide's day had started normal enough. He woke slowly from recharge, content to linger on the berth next to his partner as long as he could. Prime, having tried adapting them to the 'typical' human rituals, had designated that there would be no work performed on the human's coveted "weekends". They had tasks to keep them busy during the week, just to keep them from becoming absurdly bored. Today, however, was Saturday and thus meant not even the most inane task was to be done. The large mech was comfortable, the room and his partner keeping him warm enough to where he began to doze. While he dozed, he dreamed of feather light touches that moved from his helm, down his shoulders, across his back and down his thigh. He squirmed on the berth, sleepily encouraging his dream to continue. The caress started anew, ensuring every available surface had been touched.

Next thing he felt was the soothing motions stop and squeeze. Firmly. He woke again with a start, reaching down automatically and pulling the offending hand away. Onlining his optics, he gave his Companion a stern look.

"You…have an unhealthy obsession with grabbing my aft." Ironhide said, releasing the medic's hand just to poke him in the shoulder as he spoke. His partner's favorite past time of late had been to seize any and every opportunity available to touch, poke, caress, squeeze and occasionally smack Ironhide's backside, regardless of company or situation.

"It's hardly unhealthy. I find it to be a pleasant recreational activity." Ratchet replied neutrally, crossing his arms lightly over his chest.

"Ah. So that's your excuse?" he replied, mind wandering to one of the more recent encounters where Ratchet had mercilessly teased him about his "tattoo" of the Autobot insignia embossed on his tailgate. He'd later proceeded to trace the outlines of the drawing for several long moments before walking away, leaving his partner a shocked and trembling mess.

"Of course not. But then, do I really even -need- an excuse?"

"I think you do it just to frighten the children." Ironhide replied, remembering the day before when Ratchet had quite unceremoniously grabbed the object of discussion while the two teenagers had been present. Sam's eyes had widened enough that Bumblebee had feared they would fall out of his head. Afterwards, he made many strange sounds and motions, indicating that he was going to 'blow chunks', as he put it. Mikaela had simply shaken her head and laughed. The remaining Autobots had only given them a curious look before continuing doing whatever they'd been doing.

"No, that's just an added bonus. I do it because I can. Why? Are you asking me to stop?" his partner asked, propping himself up on his elbow and looking the other mech in the optics.

"Well, no…"

"Then what's the problem?"

"….You have a twisted view of things sometimes, Ratchet." Ironhide admonished, mildly.

"How so? I enjoy grabbing your aft, you enjoy me grabbing your aft, in either form mind you. Seems like a good situation to me. And hardly twisted."

"Cheeky mech." the black mech said, chuckling. Ratchet had a way with words when he was feeling feisty and today seemed to be a good day for it.

"Yes, but you wouldn't take me any other way."

"I'd take you any way I found you." Ironhide said, unthinkingly. It had been an honest answer, sincere and innocent in nature. However…

"Promise?" Ratchet asked, a mischievous gleam in his optics.

Oh, he'd walked right in on that one. Ironhide sighed, pulling the medic forward by his grill guard. Ratchet followed all too easily, slipping his fingers inside the black armor. It was a rare treat for his partner to be in such a playful mood and Ironhide was certainly not going to deny him, despite all the teasing the green mech had done lately.

"You're positively incorrigible sometimes." Ironhide said, reaching for his partner.

"Hmm." Ratchet purred, "Would you prefer if I deviated from the behavior?" he asked, hands moving to the cannon mounts.

"No. I think it should be highly encouraged that you stayed to course." the black mech replied, shuddering as Ratchet managed to tickle the sensors in his arms.

"Good." the medic said, quickly reaching down and squeezing the posterior of the other bot. "Because your aft is mine."

Ironhide jumped in surprise, wide optics darting to the medic's.

"And the rest of me?" he asked, quickly getting over the shock of the medic's actions, focusing his attentions on the partially squirming mech. He'd practically embedded his hands in the green mech's shoulder joints, earning him a increased shudders from his Companion. Ratchet wasn't the only one who could play this little game.

Ratchet gave a some-what nonchalant shrug before replying, hands teasing the mounting bolts and connectors of Ironhide's weaponry.

"I'll keep that around too." he replied, pushing his partner down flat on the berth.

A day off was a day off and neither had the intentions of letting it simply go to waste.


	10. Fix

**Irreparable**

"Ironhide has an irregular spark rhythm. Occasionally, he has "spells", if you would, where his spark pulse flutters and these incidents will usually land him in the med bay for an extended period of time."

"Like now?" Sam asked, worriedly. Ironhide had, in essence, passed out earlier that day. He'd not been doing anything really, just walking, when he'd found himself on his faceplate. Ratchet had brought him here, to the make-shift medical facility inside the hanger, immediately.

"Yes, like now." came the tired answer.

"But…you can fix him up, right?" the human inquired. He looked over at the now recharging mech. Ironhide was attached to dozens of machines, many familiar to Sam but most looked like nothing he'd ever seen before.

"No, Sam. I can't."

"What…what do you mean 'you can't'?"

Ratchet seemed to hesitate, as if he was trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say.

"It's going to terminate him." he said, voice soft.

Sam stilled, eyes wide. He looked from the mech on the berth to the one responsible for said mech's well-being before he replied.

"But there's gotta be -something- you can do! Ratch, seriously! This isn't funny…"

"I'm not joking. I wouldn't try to draw any humor from this situation." Ratchet answered, taken aback.

"Then -do- something!" the human cried, frustration evident in his voice. This was the first he'd ever heard about any of the mech's having any sort of irreparable problem and it obviously bothered him.

"There's nothing for me to do. I -" the medic tried to explain. However, Sam wasn't hearing it and cut him off before he could offer any further information.

"So you're just gunna let him die!?"

Sam regretted his words before they ever left his throat. Ratchet drew himself back as if the human had just slapped him across his face. His optics blazed for a few seconds before going nearly dark.

"Ratch, I…I'm-" he started, however, Ratchet cut him off in a much quieter tone than he, himself, had used earlier.

"It is not a matter of letting anything happen…it's a matter of not having a choice."

Sam shifted from foot to foot for several moments, face scrunched in thought before looking back up at the medic.

"Can't you guys like, I dunno, go pick up some new parts and fix him?"

It was an innocent question, hopeful even, asked in a quiet and repentant voice. Ratchet gave the Autobot equivalent of a sad sigh.

"We cannot replace sparks, Sam. It is not as simple as you humans and the ability to swap organs from your deceased if they have the possibility to be compatible. Our sparks contain who we are. To give Ironhide another spark to replace his own will indeed replace Ironhide himself. He will become someone else entirely."

"So, you're telling me that fixing his spark isn't possible? Trying to will kill him anyway?"

"Yes. That is exactly what I'm telling you. Ironhide's condition is permanent and it will, eventually, terminate him." Ratchet answered, optics locked on the recharging patient several feet away.

Sam cast his eyes down, mind still reeling over the information presented to it. An insistent beeping from Ironhide's berth drew both his and Ratchet's attention. The green mech walked to one of the instruments attached to the weapons officer, pressing a sequence of buttons on the attached keypad.

"Ratch?" Sam asked, worriedly stepping closer. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, Sam." Ratchet said, giving the boy a small smile, "It's just signaling the next stage of Ironhide's treatment and required an authorization code."

"Oh…" Sam started, "Wait. Treatment? You've had time to develop a treatment for this?" he asked, voice incredulous.

Ratchet didn't turn from monitoring his machines as he answered.

"This isn't the first time this has happened. Ironhide has been dealing with this…disability for some time now. The treatment is a temporary fix. It cannot solve this problem."

A groan escaped Ironhide's form and his limbs twitched slightly. Sam, surprised, jumped back.

"Is he waking up?"

Ratchet simply shook his head. "No. It's normal for this stage."

Again, the large black mech twitched, this time more forcefully.

"Sam. Perhaps it would be best if you went home. This isn't pleasant to watch and I might have to restrain him to keep him from hurting himself."

The boy remained where he stood, blaming his own insistence on a morbid curiosity.

"What's happening to him?"

Ratchet sighed again, adjusting some of the controls to the various apparatuses around the table.

"I'm teaching his spark to regulate it's own rhythm again. This machine," he said, indicating to the largest of the equipment present, "is sending electro-magnetic pulses directly into his spark chamber at an intermittent rate. The pulses have a side effect, hence his movements."

"Does…does it hurt?"

Ratchet paused in his movements, contemplating his response.

"He's never told me if it did or not. I can't imagine it to be a pleasant experience by any means, however."

Ironhide groaned again as another spasm hit him, one arm falling off the table only to be gently put back in it's former position by Ratchet.

"You know, doctors are finding cures for stuff all the time. I mean, is it possible to fix him for good?" Sam inquired, stepping closer to both mechs.

"I don't know. We've not had any opportunities since the war started to make any decent studies."

"Do you have time now?"

Ratchet's movements stopped and he gazed at the small human with a contemplative look.

"I suppose we do. For a while at least."

Sam chewed on his lip nervously, eyes glancing quickly between the mechs.

"Does -he- have time?"

The medic kneeled down to be closer to Sam's eye level.

"He's not going to expire anytime soon, Sam. I said 'eventually'. We live a long time and always thought the war would end us before anything else. Now, we might actually have 'caught a break' as you humans say."

Sam visibly relaxed and looked up at the resting mech. Ironhide still spasmed periodically but seemed much calmer than he had before.

"So…you're gunna try?"

Ratchet gave the boy another small smile, "Of course, Sam."

The boy gave a confident nod.

"When will he wake up?"

The medic stood and looked at his equipment, "Not for a while. His systems are drained but he's recharging nicely. I'll ensure you are notified upon his waking."

"Okay." he said, turning on his heel and walking towards the door.

As the door slid shut, Ratchet's shoulders slumped. He hadn't truly lied to the youngster but he hadn't been completely honest either. His intent had to been to repair the boy's confidence in the fact that they were tougher than they seemed. In all honesty, he truly had no idea how long it would take for this debilitating disorder to lay claim to Ironhide's very existence, nor did he know how long the treatment would hold out before this illness evolved yet again. Carefully, as to not disturb any of the numerous connectors and wires, he laid a gentle hand on the black mech's shoulder, gripping it just slightly. Ratchet had no intention of not making any attempts to fix the problem, he just wasn't sure if he -could-.

"It's been a long trip, old friend. Stay with me a while longer and we can at least -try-."


	11. What?

**H2O**

Rust, apparently, was the bane of Ironhide's existence. Everyone who met him was quick to discover that the trigger-happy old warrior had issues with any substance that even looked remotely like oxidized metal. Technical Sergeant Epps was no exception.

It was a normal day for the human as he walked into the secluded and low key aircraft hanger. It was even normal to hear the insistent arguments between two giant and colorful robots sitting across from one another at a similarly giant table. Ironhide was, of course, grousing about the potential for metal deterioration and the constant threat of fluids in systems that needed no such liquids. Ratchet, on the other hand, looked more put off at the idea of arguing over this -again- and was constantly prattling off the nearly rehearsed lines of his counterargument. It was like a play that never ended. Today, however, something caught the Sergeant's ear. The discussion had turned from the small canine companion of Sam's to the landing locations that had been endured, the fluids associated with both, and the ability of said fluids to cause irreparable damage to metallic surfaces.

"Wait…-where- did you say you landed again?" Epps interrupted. Both mech's looked down, Ratchet actually looking more pleasantly surprised than his large black counterpart.

"In a small body of hydrogen based fluid outside of an organic's residence." Ironhide grumbled, frame shuddering slightly as if the memory alone was enough to evoke the "wrath of the rust".

"You landed in a pool?"

"Yes." he'd paused before answering, possibly to check the reference that the human had used.

"That's a lot of water." he said, earning a curt nod from Ironhide. "And, you landed looking like you look now? I mean, all truck lookin' and stuff?"

"No. We land as protoforms with only minor armor." Ratchet supplied.

"So, you were naked." Epps said, ghost of a smile crossing his features.

"I was what?" the weapons specialist said, features scrunched in what could only be described as 'perplexed'.

"Naked. You know, to be without proper coverings."

"Yes, I suppose I was." Ironhide said after another pause.

"You were naked, in some stranger's pool. Never pegged you for a skinny-dipper, Ironhide." the human said, body shaking with barely suppressed laughter and smiling from ear to ear.

"What?" Ironhide asked, pausing once more to run another cross-check with the human's world-wide web. "I don't think-"

"What about the others? They land the same way?" Epps continued, stopping Ironhide's protests.

"No, I was the only one to land in a body of water. Everyone else landed on solid ground."

"But all of you were in these, uh…protoforms too, right?"

"Yes." Ratchet supplied again, a touch of humor in his own voice.

"I do not understand the humor, Sergeant. It's not often we get to be in our protoform states. Sometimes it is far more comfortable than being fully armored." Ironhide said, shifting his glare between the uproariously laughing human and his own cheekily smiling partner.

"Who would believe it? A race of giant alien robots who enjoy streaking around town in their birthday suits."

"We don't have any 'suits'." Ironhide began protesting again, stopped only the sound of Ratchet groaning, one hand covering his face. Ironhide straightened his frame and crossed his arms over his chest, trying his best to look as disgruntled as possible.

Epps took one look at the giant mechanoid, giant -pouting- mechanoid, and his arms immediately hugged his sides, laughter became louder and his eyes began tearing up. No matter what he did, the human could not catch enough air in his lungs to make another inquiry. So, with more mirth than Ironhide thought a human capable of, Sgt Epps made his way back to the other portion of the hanger, his laughter echoing long after he'd managed to stagger his way through the door. The weapons specialist glared at the now closed door for several long moments before the quiet chuckle from Ratchet drew his attention.

"You're not helping."

With a snort, Ratchet stood from his seat and started towards his medical bay, pausing only briefly to give the large black mech a hardy slap on the shoulder as he passed.

"Trust me, 'Hide. You don't need my help. You're doing a good enough job without it."

"Thanks...wait, what?"

Ratchet cackled as the doors to the medbay closed, leaving the cursing and sputtering weapons specialist on the outside.


	12. Winter

**Sheltered**

"Ratchet, get your aft under some kind of cover. Now." Ironhide groused over the communication systems. Ratchet was currently several miles away, learning as much as he could about the apparently erratic atmosphere the planet had. The weather had long since turned cold, something Sam had called 'seasonal change' and the land was encased in winter. The landscape was wide and flat, giving no obstruction to the high velocity winds that cut through the area. The wind is what dropped the temperature, thus gaining Ratchet's curiosity to study this "wind chill factor" involved in the planet's meteorology.

"No. I'm nearly finished out here." came the reply. The noise of the wind was resounding over the speakers but the medics voice was clear enough to understand.

"Yes. I can see your core stats from here, keep that in mind. Get inside." Ironhide replied. He had seated himself in Ratchet's medbay, idly watching the monitors that constantly displayed the vitals of each of the mechs. Right now, Ratchet's core temperature was on a steady decline and would soon be entering a very dangerous levels.

"Frag it, Ironhide. I know what I'm doing."

"Does it look like I give a slag if you 'know what you're doing'? You are going to freeze up if you don't get out of that wind. Now, get in some shelter."

There was a shuffle of static on the line, mostly sounding like wind noise, before the speakers went silent.

"If I have to come out there and -put- you in some kind of shelter…" he started, leaving the threat hanging as bait. Ratchet did not do well if threatened. However, after several moments, nothing came back over the speakers.

"Ratchet?" he tried. Again, silence.

"Ratch, are you okay?"

Nothing cleared the ever-present static that always accompanied the communications systems. He tried one more setup, using the emergency lines.

_:Partner?:_

Dozens of colorful swears in just as many languages filled Ironhide's processors when even that line turned up nothing. Ratchet had been known to turn off his communications lines when he was aggravated but no one could turn off the emergency signals. Defeated the purpose. Moments later, the large black truck was barreling out the hanger doors and headed to his partner's last known location.

The wind rocked his frame with surprisingly strong gusts, threatening to toss him to the wayside like so much loose foliage. He cut across the landscape, ignoring the roads. There were no tracks left from Ratchet's trek out to this area, the velocity of the winds ensuring that immediately. Even Ironhide's tracks were almost as soon as they were created. And the temperature was beyond frigid. It took nearly no time at all before he felt the frost building up on the exterior of his chassis. Even while he was moving the ice was clinging to his sides. Sand from the desert floor billowed up, pelting his armor with an unrelenting force.

Part of his mind chastised him for being out in such a spell of bizarre weather just as soon as the sleet began to make itself known to him. The ice on his sides built up faster, his fender wells were becoming heavy with the clinging and frozen sand. Subconsciously, he saw the warning lights of his systems as they continuously and rapidly lost heat. He ignored them however, using what Ratchet had recently referred to his 'annoyingly stubborn tenacity', to do so. His partner was his first priority, regardless of how often he tried convincing anyone otherwise. So, when he got to Ratchet's last known location and found the area totally empty, he got more than just a little worried. The sand whipped around him, mixing with the sleet and coating his frame, blinding his sensors. So, when a shockingly warm hand tapped him on his hood, he jumped.

Ironhide's iced over frame clattered loudly to his audios even as Ratchet pulled him into the shelter. The medic grumbled under his breath as he hurriedly ushered the black mech deeper into the rock recession. He knew something like this would happen. The weapons specialist was hotheaded at best and plain stubborn at worst. Right now was definitely showing his stubborn steak.

"Slag it, Ironhide. Didn't you get my message?"

The chilled weapons specialist narrowed his optics at the medic.

"What message?" Ironhide ground out.

"The one where I said that the storm was headed in and that I was going for cover?"

Ironhide glared at the green mech, optics narrowing to slits.

"Apparently not." he groused, shaking his head at his companion's state. "Sit down. I think there's some kind of heat source under these formations. The rocks are actually quite warm."

He guided Ironhide to a secluded corner, far from the entrance of the cave. Once the black mech had seated himself, Ratchet vanished back out the shelter only to return a few moments later.

"Slagging storm took out the comm router…" he grumbled.

Ratchet kneeled down to Ironhide's optic level. The weapons specialist was still disgruntled, more so now that he knew the medic had indeed heeded the weather and taken shelter. And he was right, the rocks were quite pleasantly warm. Ironhide soon found the metal of his armor was heating and the shivers were slowing. Ratchet continued to scrutinize the older mech, running the scans that would tell him more about his partner's condition. Ironhide let out a huff and looked anywhere but the medic. Ratchet released a sigh of his own before moving to sit next to the burly mech.

"You're not warming up fast enough." he said, wrapping an arm around Ironhide's shoulders and pulling him to his own frame. Metal clattered against metal as the black bot moved without protest. He still refused to meet Ratchet's optics even as the medic activated several redundant systems to put out more heat for him to warm up with.

Ratchet continuously fussed over the bot, adjusting the heat from one portion of his body to another, trying to ensure his partner's safety, and all while delivering spectacular threats that involved tacky glue and building insulation. Ironhide couldn't really care. It didn't even bother him that Ratchet had managed to find shelter in the seemingly wide open spaces near their hanger. Now that the surge of worry was over, the cold from his frame dealt with and his partner safe, his subconscious decided all was okay in the universe. He started to doze.

The medic tried to glower at the other mech but found himself being more amused by the minute. Leave it up to Ironhide to fail to check the weather reports before heading out. It was understandable on some levels. Without the relay station for the radios, there wasn't much chance of Ratchet getting a signal back to base. The humans might be imaginative and inventive but they're creations caused a lot of interference for the much more delicate Cybertronian equipment. He ran more scans, relieved to see that the core temperature levels had returned to a some-what more tolerable level. He'd been lucky to get a decent reading on the underground cavities present throughout the area. Absently, he stroked the warming metal of his partner's armor as the other fell into a light recharge. Outside, the storm had strengthened, the sleet was replaced by snow and the winds had yet to let up. The weather brought on by this time of year is what had initially prompted the medic to conduct the field study. Ironhide's unwelcome, at the time, radio calls were annoying at best. However, given the overly protective nature of his Companion, Ratchet thought little more of it. But, for the mech to have driven out here simply for the reason that radio communications went down…

Ironhide stirred just slightly, shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position. Ratchet simply smirked, unable to hold the least bit of anger towards his partner, despite the interruption in his research. Regardless of all that, it had been an incredibly genuine gesture. There would be more natural storms for him to watch and study but there was only so often that he and his partner simply were allowed to just -be-.

"Thanks, 'Hide." he said, giving the black mech an affectionate nuzzle. "You old glitchy petro rat…"

Ironhide gave a soft grunt in reply, seemingly comfortable at currently remaining immobile. Ratchet simply shook his head, resigning himself to keeping one optic on the storm and the other on his resting Companion. Ratchet gave a small smile and leaned himself back against the rock face content to listen to the winds as they howled just outside.


	13. Strangers

**Strangers**

Ironhide did not like meeting new people. It had become apparent, however, that he would be left with very little choice on the matter. The large mech gave the data pad he was carrying a look of disgust as he continued his solo march up to the simple buildings before him. The data pad were his orders, handed straight down from the Prime himself. Normally, such a circumstance would be an honor had he not known Optimus since before he became Prime. No, now it was just flat out annoying and he'd made sure to tell his superior that in no subtle terms. Ironhide had acted as Prime's unofficial body guard, not that the much larger mech really -needed- one but that was beside the point. Optimus occasionally needed someone to kick him in the aft and Ironhide had been that mech. However, it seemed his illustrious leader thought that his unofficial bodyguard spent too much time polishing his cannons and not enough time socializing.

Hence, orders.

He looked at the rather unimposing building before him. It was multi-level, standard gray metal with a pair of nondescript doors. It was the Cybertronian Military Academy and he was to become an instructor.

The black mech thought that Prime's processors were fried when he'd given these orders. Him? Teach? The idea was ludicrous and, as he replied, insane. Prime simply shook his head in mild amusement and gave Ironhide his instructions. His first order of business was to report to the primary office to sign in and then to med bay for his preliminary physical. Prime had even scheduled the appointment for him with the advice of 'be late at your own risk'.

So, here he was, standing just outside the doors of the most illustrious training facility in Iacon and he didn't even -want- to be here. Grumbling in resignation, the large mech plodded his way up the stairs and into the quiet halls of the Academy. Upon entering, he came across a circular reception desk, manned by a rather strange and tiny mechanoid. The bot had four hands, each simultaneously performing different functions. The movements seemed frantic and uncoordinated, the speech hardly understandable. The small mech had demanded his orders and proceeded to process the information in the computers, each hand now operating a key pad. Ironhide shifted impatiently, earning him absolutely no reaction from the stuttering mechanoid. Less than a breem later, his orders were returned to him with another data pad, this one containing a 'to-do' list to in-process the facilities.

Ironhide sighed. It was a long list.

With a grumble, he left the tiny mech to his work and started seeking out the various offices he'd need to go through.

He'd plowed through the paperwork presented at each and every location. The locations, however, were scattered between nearly a dozen buildings. By the time he'd gotten to the medical facility, which happened to be on the other side of the compound and situated close to what appeared to be a large arena, he was feeling far from 'sociable'. And, to add on to that, he'd heard some rather…interesting rumors about the CMO of the facility he was headed to. Most were subtle jibes such as 'watch your head' and 'glad it's not me'.

It didn't take him long to discover the relevance of these 'suggestions'. As soon as the doors to the interior medical facility opened, he was immediately bombarded with what sounded a lot like a scuffle and very loud yelling. Slightly alarmed, he hurried into the main theater of the building, stopping as soon as he'd entered.

"You slag-sucking, pit-forsaken, misbegotten excuse for a protoform! Put your aft back on that berth or I will weld you to it!"

Ironhide's optics widened as the scene unfolded before him. The medic, a rather lanky mechanoid, welder in hand, stood poised and ready to carry out his threat. The object of his ire was a much smaller bot with a medium build. Said young mech was currently ducking for cover behind his abandoned berth. The remainder of the patients, few that they were, seemed rather unruffled by this display. Upon Ironhide's rather abrupt entrance, however, all activity ceased. The medic turned his glare to who'd interrupted his tirade.

"Who the frag are you?" he asked, grumpily.

"I'm Ir-"

"Are you hurt?"

"Uh, no."

"Then get out of my med bay." the medic said, dismissing him completely and returning his attention to the young mech. The bot had tried taking advantage of the medic's momentary distraction and had inched himself closer to a side exit. "Recoil. Berth. Now." he reiterated, pointing at the appropriate slab of metal.

Recoil's shoulders slumped in defeat and he trudged his way back as directed. The medic, Ratchet if Ironhide cared to recall the name on the nearby office door, continued to watch with a piercing glare.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, marching up to Ironhide.

"I'm under direct orders to report to you." Ironhide replied, gruffly. He offered up the data pads to the medic. Ratchet's optics narrowed, crossed his arms over his chest and completely ignored the gesture.

"You're late."

Indeed, it was going to be a -long- stay.

Ironhide emerged from the med center several hours later, temper beyond frayed and he somewhat feared for the remainder of his sanity. And this was just day one. He was in half a mind to get Prime on the communications relay and tell him -exactly- what he thought about this assignment and where it could be stuffed.

However, Ironhide had always been reliable and thus doing something so brash would undermine any trust in that reliability.

Though he did have a whole new outlook on the medic. The bot was crazy. Had to be. Suddenly, the warning from Prime reinstated itself in the forefront of his processor.

'_Be late at your own risk.' _he'd said. Ha! Understatement of the Vorn.

The medic was competent and thorough but his temper was something to contend with. And, for some reason, that annoyed the slag out of him. All he knew was that he couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt like strangling another mech just for argument sake. He could take the rant about his punctuality, or, in Ratchet's definition, his lack thereof. But he refused to take the final straw. It went something along the lines of the medic 'knowing fresh sparklings that had a higher sense of duty'. The resulting shouting match could probably be heard from three corridors in any direction.

Irregardless, he'd passed his physical and was released to the relative freedom of the Academy. Exhausted, all he wanted now was a berth and no disruptions for at least an orn.

Just as soon as he could find his quarters.


	14. Parents

**The Question**

"How do you guys…you know…" Sam asked, waving his hands in an elaborate side to side gesture.

Ratchet gave the boy a quizzical look, crouching down to be closer to the boy's level.

"How do we what?"

Sam gestured again, "You know…"

"No, I'm afraid I don't. Would you care to, perhaps, complete the question with verbiage as opposed to hand signals that have no real meaning?"

Sam groaned and tried various signals and words, none of which seemed to relay his true question. He was oddly embarrassed, something even the most oblivious of mechs on the base would have noticed, had they been present. Finally, he settled on nervous babbling.

"You know, doin' the dirty, banging bolts, turning turbines, the horizontal polka…"

Ratchet paused and drew back slightly. "Sam, are you inquiring as to how we, as you humans say, 'have sex'?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, shoulders slumping in relief.

Ratchet regarded the teen with what appeared, to Sam at any rate, to be a very amused expression.

"I'll tell you when you're older." he said, straightening up from his crouched position and walking towards the exit.

"Wait. What?" Sam said, sputtering. "Ratchet! Not cool, man!"

"If you want 'cool', go talk to Jazz. That's more his department."

Sam stalked after the medic. "C'mon! I'm curious. I mean, is it possible? What do you guys use anyway cuz my brain is comin' up with some -weird- equipment here and-…wait. Did you just tell me to ask Jazz?"

"Your chances would be better."

"He'll tell me?"

"No." Ratchet replied, flippantly.

"Awww." Sam groaned, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at the green mech.

"He'd try to demonstrate."

"Yeah…WHAT?!"

"Not with -you-. Close your lower mandible before you injure it on the floor." Ratchet said, continuing on his path, giving the boy nothing but a small glance and a quick wave of his hand.

"Why doesn't he just, you know, -tell- me?"

"Because he's an exhibitionist at spark, I think. Sadistic glitch sometimes. He'd prefer demonstrating if you so much as mention the subject."

"With -who-?"

"Who ever is handy. Which is why I'm making myself scarce." Ratchet said, pausing at one of the numerous doors in the current hallway. Without him even knocking, the door slid open quietly and the medic stepped over the threshold.

"Have fun, Sam." Ratchet said, just as the doors slid shut behind him, the indicator pad blinking 'locked' in bold red letters.

Sam huffed out an aggravated breath. He'd asked Bee, who told him to ask Prime, who told him to ask Ratchet, who told him to ask Jazz, who apparently preferred getting it on with an audience. And Ratchet, who he'd figured would actually -tell- him, had retreated to…

Ironhide's room? What could he possibly want in ther-

The loud thump against the wall was the only precursor to the drawn out groaning that followed. Sam stepped closer, wondering if the two had gotten into another one of their infamous bouts of stubbornness. There was another groan, then a hiss, and a muffled 'do that again' in what sounded like a very pleading voice.

Sam's eyes widened in realization. -That- was definitely not a fight. That was…

CRASH! groan

That was quite enough, thank you.

Sam turned and quickly headed back down the hallway, away from the locked room and back to the relevant safety of waiting for Bumblebee to return from his patrol.

He original question, however, had yet to be fully answered and already it was enough to give him nightmares.

Sam shuddered at the thought of hearing those sounds again. Lest of all from Ironhide and Ratchet. The idea that those two could still 'get it on' was like thinking about his parents still doing the same. It might happen, but he did -not- want to know.


	15. Why?

**Battle of the Wills**

"Now, the secondary trigger is located in next to or at least near a buffer utilized to dispel excess energies, usually associated with overload but also used for a safety if one does something stupid like come into direct contact with an unregulated energy source. This trigger will only engage when-"

Ratchet ceased his lecture when the door opened, quite loudly, and admitted the burly black mech into the classroom.

Ironhide halted at the threshold, eying the rather obnoxious door before looking inside to face the instructor who's class he'd just interrupted. Ratchet glared, optics glinting dangerously.

"And what, pray tell, did you do -this- time? Flash-weld your cannon again?" he asked, annoyed.

A snicker came from the back of the room somewhere, earning the student a cold glance from Ratchet.

"Hardly, doc. I was sent here by the admin." Ironhide said. "They said I'm teachin' your sparklings about weapons systems."

Ratchet's optics narrowed. "They sent you to teach _my_ class to -shoot-?"

"Pretty much." he said, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Unless they figured the youngin's outta learn about interfacing from someone who knew what they were doing."

The class erupted in a mix of astonished gasps, snickers and quiet murmurs before Ratchet slammed his hand down on the desk, glaring them all into silence.

"No. Now get out." Ratchet said, dismissing Ironhide with a flick of his wrist.

"Can't do that, Ratch." Ironhide said, holding his ground.

Another chorus of disbelieving sounds erupted from the class as their primary instructor stiffened before turning back around to face the 'intruder'.

"Office. Now."

Ironhide shrugged a shoulder and followed the fuming medic into the attached office, allowing the door to close behind him. The office was cluttered, yet tidy and only sparsely decorated with any personal effects. Ratchet, however, hardly seemed interested in his own décor at the moment.

"Number 1, _never_ call me that again." Ratchet said, stalking towards the weapons specialist just as soon as the doors had closed completely. "Number 2, I'm teaching medics, not sharpshooters. If you want to teach, set up a curriculum and quit bothering my students with this nonsense."

"Self-defense course, Ratchet." the black mech responded, "Only part of it is dealing with weapons. The rest is hand-to-hand in case any of these sparklings get stuck out in the field under hostile fire."

"Ah. I see. So, you think I'm just going to allow you to take them out of class so that they can go participate in this 'course'?" Ratchet asked, arms crossing his chest.

"No. I came here to work out a schedule that would work -around- current classes." Ironhide answered, calmly. "What do you think I am? Some self-centered ego-maniac that thinks his priorities are more important than others?"

"Yes, actually. That's exactly what I think about you. You've obviously done nothing to sway that opinion either."

Ironhide huffed out a sigh.

"Look. I don't like this anymore than you do. I don't want to have to teach them-"

"Oh? Why's that? They not good enough?"

"No." Ironhide replied, frustrated.

"Because they're not worth the time?" the medic shot back.

"You're contradicting yourself here. First you don't want me near them and now you say I'm wanting nothing to do with them." Ironhide retorted, pacing a bit in front of Ratchet's desk. "And no, that's not what I'm saying."

"Then, please! Enlighten me because right now, I'm really seeing 'egotistical'."

"Because medics shouldn't -have- to be put out in the field and be expected to fight!" Ironhide said, spinning back around to face the desk. "Not that they _can't _but because they _shouldn't_."

Ratchet paused, optics narrowing in thought for a few moments before he too huffed out a sigh.

"You'll have a schedule by the end of the next cycle. Now get out. I've got a class to teach."

Ironhide nodded and exited the office into the eerily quiet classroom beyond. Ratchet lingered behind a few moments, waiting until the noisy door closed and trying to collect himself before returning out to face his alarmingly quiet class.

"Activate data pad number 32-R, section 3..."


	16. Insides

**Crash and…copulation?**

CLANKCLANKCLANKCZZZZ

"Bee?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Who's in the garage?" the boy asked, stepping back towards his guardian.

"Ratchet and Ironhide."

"Oh."

Sam flinched automatically and made to duck as another resounding CRASH, followed by several more clanks and various other odd noises, emitted from the closed two-car garage.

"What are they doing? Remodeling?" he asked half-curious, half-cautious.

"No." came Bumblebee's simple reply.

"Demolishing?"

"No."

"What then?" he asked, turning towards the yellow Camaro sitting in it's 'usual' spot.

"Copulating."

"Oh. Copulating. That makes sense…" Sam said, shortly followed by "WHAAAAT??"

"Copulate, verb, to 'make love' or 'to mate' and-" Bumblebee began, getting cut off by his human charge.

"No! Bee, no just no. Stop. LALALALALALALALALALALALAcan'thearyouLALALALALALALA."

"Sam. Honestly. I remember you inquiring to me about this act not too long ago."

"Yes. Then I heard Ironhide jumping Ratchet in his room. No more. No robo-sex or 'copulation' or, or, or…CRASHTHUMP Graaaaah!"

"Actually, Ratchet jumped him." Bumblebee supplied, helpfully.

And if Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear the car sounded…smug.

"Oh great Bee. That makes it all better…" Sam said, giving a half-hearted kick at the tire. "Man…I'm gunna have to sanitize everything in there. I -keep- stuff in there."

"Relax, Sam. There aren't any 'messes' involved" Bumblebee said, using as soothing tone as he could. Until the sound of something glass shattering erupted from the small building. "…except for whatever they manage to break. That and they're no where near your 'secret stash' of Busty Beauties."

THUNKTHUNKTHUNKBANG

"Geezus. Sounds like there's four of them in there…"

"No. Not today. There wasn't enough space for all of us."

"Bee. Please tell me you're not telling me what I think you're telling me because I'm telling you that if you're telling me _that_, it would break my brain."

"Why? It's nothing abnormal for us to have…what you might call a 'mating pool', sans the offspring, of course." Bumblebee offered.

"…That's it. I'm outta here." Sam said, swiftly snatching the bike away from the side of the garage, as if the structure would drag him in and make him view (or worse, participate in) what was occurring in it's interior, and pedaled quickly down the street, all the time muttering something about 'never being able to look at that building the same again' and 'robo-orgies'.

Bumblebee waited until his charge was a block away before firing up his engine and his comm system.

'_You two are evil.' _he sent to the two somewhat distracted mechs in the garage.

'_Ha! You try dealing with this glitch when he's in a mood.' _

'_I'll show you a glitch, Ironhide. And we're not the ones tricking humans into thinking that we're 'mating' in here.'_

'_Whaaat? It's not my fault that humans automatically assume that we're 'doing the dirty' every time we're behind closed doors.' _Bumblebee said, more than a hint of amusement in his voice. '_Sounded like a good idea at the time…' _

'_Famous last words.' _the medic replied before muttering something about 'glitched ticklish cannons'.

'…_your cannons are ticklish? _Bumblebee inquired, playfully. He received a 'swipe to the head' from Ironhide, as much as a communications blow can swipe, and retreated to find his charge.

To keep him out of trouble, since Sam was so adapt at finding it.

And to insure that there was no residual 'trauma' from the garage experience.

And to tell him it was just a joke.

…It was just a joke, right?

As the sounds of the young scouts departure faded, Ironhide glared at the medic, who's various tools were deeply embedded in the large cannons that adorned the black mech's arms.

It really _had_ started out as an innocent recalibration of the weapons but had soon escalated, as things tend to do between the pair, into their current not-so-innocent (_looking, _by any means) situation. A situation in which a mortified and supine Ironhide was straddled by an extremely smug Ratchet.

"I can't believe you let that slip…"

"I didn't let anything 'slip'. I'm making our excuses." Ratchet replied, twitching one of the tools currently connected to the recalibration mechanism in the right cannon and having Ironhide nearly 'jump out of his plating' as Jazz would say, "And they are ticklish."

"Stop that." he said, trying to take his cannon away as the medic flicked another tool.

"No."

"Ratchet…" Ironhide groaned.

"No. I warned you. You keep going near strange organic…stuff…and it's going to cost you eventually. Now hold still and let me get this finished."

Ironhide groaned again as the medic pulled various pieces of purple fabric, cotton, animal crackers (usually in powder form) and the occasional 'happy meal' toy from the various operational mechanisms inside the powerful weapon.

"How many times, 'Hide?"

"How many times what?"

"How many times" yank "do I have to tell you" SHRED(whimper) "to double check your interior before you transform after the Lennox child has ridden with you?"

Ironhide only grumbled in response.


	17. Ends

**Relic**

"Will?"

"Yeah, Ironhide?"

"That man. What is he doing?" the truck inquired, curiously.

Will looked out the window at the nearby gas station, spotting the man sitting with his wheelchair parked over the center line of two spots.

"Oh. Well, begging, seems like." Will replied, voice slightly troubled.

"He wears the uniform of your military." Ironhide observed.

"Yeah, yeah he does."

"Then why does he beg?" he asked, slightly distracted.

"Because, sometimes, things don't always work out the way people planned them to." Will said, turning his attention back to the traffic ahead of them as they waited for the light to change.

"Are you saying his mission was a failure?"

"No, I'm saying that he's probably down on his luck and can't find his way out." Will replied, giving the large truck a pat on the steering wheel.

Ironhide remained quiet, contemplating the broken form of the man in the wheelchair. He was missing a leg, the excess fabric of the torn and faded BDU uniform tucked haphazardly out of the way of the wheels. The man was untidy, dirty and still as a statue. He was unkempt, beard and hair long and needing grooming. His posture was that of a man who was so far defeated, so broken, that he couldn't sit straight anymore. Instead, he leaned heavily on the small flag pole he'd managed to install on the side arm of his chair. The flag itself, unlike it's owner, was pristine and flew gracefully from the top of it's short staff.

A quick search of the internet, using the man's face as the reference, showed that he was indeed prior military with an astounding service record. But the people who walked past the man, not giving him the slightest glance unless it was a glare for his taking up of two parking spots, couldn't know his history. And no one could be bothered to ask. He keyed his audios up to listen beyond the growl of the traffic, wanting to observe this seemingly fallen soldier more closely but being physically unable to. What he heard the most of were the various sneers of many of those who passed him with a glare and the silence of those who didn't even look. The most common phrase he heard ran along the lines of 'useless garbage', 'rotten beggar', and 'old relic'.

Will gave the pedal a nudge when Ironhide lingered at the now green light, quietly attracting the vehicles attention again. The truck obligingly pulled out into traffic but not before marking the location he'd seen the man on his personal tracking system.

.

"You've been thinking too much again."

Ironhide didn't even flinch as the new voice intruded upon the silence. Ratchet stopped several feet behind him, arms crossed loosely over his chest plates.

"How could you tell?" Ironhide inquired, quietly.

"I could smell the smoke on the other side of the base." Ratchet quipped in return.

Ironhide snorted and continued to gaze out at the night time landscape.

"What's weighing on your processors, 'Hide?" Ratchet asked, taking a seat next to the large mech.

"Am I a relic?" Ironhide asked after several moments of quiet contemplation.

"What?" Ratchet asked, drawing back a bit in surprise.

"Am I a relic?" Ironhide inquired again, turning his gaze towards the medic.

"What is glitched in your processors that makes you think you're a relic?"

"I saw a man today. The forgotten product of a war still being fought." he explained, returning his gaze to the skyline. "I heard what the other humans called him. 'Relic' was one of the kinder terms."

Ironhide gave a frustrated growl and huffed exhaust through his vents.

"I just can't help but wonder, now that the war is stalled, if not over…"

"What would you do if there's no one left to fight?"

"Yes." Ironhide said, giving the medic a hopeful look.

"I can't answer that question for you, Ironhide. What you decide to do when we no longer have to fight is entirely up to you." Ratchet replied, leaning into the black mech's shoulder. "But you know we won't abandon you."

"You are not a relic, 'Hide. More stubborn than what I would consider healthy, but not a relic." the medic added. "However…you are the most ancient creature I've ever met." he supplied, ducking the mild swipe Ironhide took at his head.

Ironhide glowered but his frame relaxed mildly as the pair slipped into a companionable silence just as Retreat played over the base's speaker system and the flag was lowered for the evening.


	18. Who?

-1"That glitch-processed, half-defragged, smelter-swimming scrap heap has pushed me too far, Prime. If he pushes my buttons just one more time, JUST ONE, I'm going to-"

"Tear limb from socket and beat him over the cranial unit with it, yes, I know." Prime retorted, giving the comm device an amused look.

"…How did you…"

"I just got off the comm with Ratchet not 10 breems ago and he had the exact same thing to say about you. I, for one, am starting to wonder if you two went and bonded behind my back the way you bicker."

There was a pause and then an alarmed gargling sound, an indicator that Prime had just struck his friend speechless.

Unfortunately, one like Ironhide does not remain speechless for long.

"Bond? With HIM?"

"Same thing he said…" Prime muttered.

"I'd rather be painted pink and have my cannons altered to liquid shooters than bond with him."

"But you've had relations with him, have you not?" Prime countered, voice curious.

Another pause.

"What?" came the bemused reply.

"Relations. Partner. Interfaced. Swapped proton packets. Whatever the younglings are calling it now days."

"…That was a mistake."

"Yes, one that seems to be repeating itself quite frequently as of late."

"I…"

"The students seem to think that it's good for both of you and endorse the partnership." Prime added, the tone of voice he used indicating such a thing as proper or as common as discussing the latest educational planning seminar.

"…What?"

"They claim you're quite…loud. It would seem that Ratchet's office walls are not entirely too thick."

The only sound that followed the momentary silence was the loud THUNK of metal striking metal, indicative of Ironhide's cranial unit striking the desk surface, and Prime's quiet chuckle.

"You should not be this amused by the situation, Prime."

"Perhaps not. But I will not be given another ultimatum today by one of my oldest and dearest friends. I will not choose between the pair of you."

"I'm…confused."

"Then you need to speak with Ratchet and clear the air."

"He requested a transfer?"

"In essence." Optimus added, carefully.

"You didn't actually grant it, did you?" Ironhide asked, sounding mildly insulted.

"Of course not. He is an extremely valuable asset to the Academy. Perhaps, one day, I might grant his requests to rejoin the political arena. But not yet."

The other mech remained quiet.

"I fear you are stuck with him for a while yet, old friend." Prime said, voice lightly laced with amusement. "But I must return to my reports. I wish you luck."

"Yes…" Ironhide said, distracted. "Thank you, Optimus."

"Of course, Ironhide. Peace be. Prime out."

Ironhide stared at the comm console for several breems after his communication with Optimus Prime ended before squaring his shoulders and leaving the room. Yes, apparently he and the medic did need to have a talk but if he knew Ratchet, and he knows he does, then it will be like pulling dentaplates from a hungry sharkatron.

Ratchet didn't even look up from his data pads when the door to his office was opened without the courtesy chime being struck.

"Do you ever knock?"

"No."

"Obviously. What do you want?"

"You requested a transfer?"

"And you haven't?" Ratchet asked, voice incredulous.

"No."

"Oh, not today, hm? Shocking."

Yes. Definitely time for the "direct approach".

"…I really can believe you were a politician with an attitude like yours."

Ratchet stopped. The data pad was carefully laid upon the desk surface and he glared up at Ironhide.

"One, my life is not an open data packet for you to read on a whim. Two, if you've hacked my file again, you're life as a rampaging, lunatic 'blow slag up now, ask questions later' shall end. Three, I want to know who even mentioned that to you so I can serve them their own hardware through their intake tubes myself."

"Why is it not mentioned anywhere? Not in your file-"

"Which you have no right being in in the first place-"

"Not on the history-"

"Don't get me started on that."

"Nor is it in any record or report from -any- of the counsel meetings over the past hundred rotations." Ironhide finished, blatantly ignoring all of Ratchet's interruptions.

"It was -erased-. Happy?" the medic replied, testily.

"Erased?"

"Yes! Gone! Cleared. Deleted. Removed from record. It didn't happen."

"Why?"

"None of your business. Now, I don't know how you even -heard- about this but I think you'd do much better to forget it. Leave." Ratchet stated, the tone of his vocal processor indicating that the matter was done.

"Ratchet, I-"

"NOW!" Ratchet ordered, turning and striding away from the other mech.

"No." Ironhide stated, calmly.

Ratchet's office grew deathly quiet as he slowly turned to face the mech. "What did you just say?"

"I said 'no'."

Ratchet's glare doubled in intensity, optics narrowed into the smallest slits Ironhide had ever seen on the mech. "I suggest, Ironhide, that you rescind that answer and change it to the one that I want to hear."

"Your intakes stand a better chance of permanent shut down before that happens."

"Do. Not. Test me. My past, present or future is not for you to poke your sorry skid plate into. I did not ask for you to barge in here. I do not -want- you to barge in here. Whatever it is you think you know about me will best serve you by being forgotten. Now get the frag out."

"I'm not done talking to you yet." Ironhide interjected.

"Oh yes the flak you are. I was finished before you even activated your vocal processors. Slagging peace be and LEAVE."

"What is your slagging problem with me anyway, Ratchet?"

"Oh. Oh no. Don't even get me -started- on that."

"Please, don't hold your servos on my account, you old stubborn cog."

"Okay. You want to know? Fine. Here's the flakking list, you over-clocked, sorry-aft excuse for a harddrive. You are too much firepower and not enough processor. Half the time I wonder if your RAM can keep up with whatever slagging program you have that seems to tell you that you're always right."

"Fragging pit, Ratchet. You-"

"I'm not done yet." he said, spinning back around to face the black mech. "You're the most tactless, egotistical, self-serving, manipulative rust rash this side of the Cantax Nebula and I'm flat out tired of taking all the flak you seem to bring into my existence and-" Ratchet ranted, each point being driven home as he forcefully jabbed his digit into the black mech's shoulder.

"Well forgive the pit out of me for tryin' to actually make an attempt at understanding a pit-slagging thing about your sorry aft." Ironhide countered, giving the medic a shove of his own.

"If I fragging wanted you to understand ANYTHING about me, I'd tell you as much! Get! OUT!"

There were many things Ironhide expected from this conversation but being completely and totally manhandled by the medic was certainly not one of them. It was a feat on it's own for the mech to be able to bodily -throw- the weapons specialist outside of the now quantum locked doors. And it ticked him off.

"Just who are you, Ratchet?! Who are you to judge anything I do? Who the slagging PIT are you hiding from?!" he bellowed, giving the doors a very angry stare. The metal stood cold and uncaring but anyone in the immediate vicinity of the weapons specialist shuffled nervously.

Ironhide's intakes worked quickly, trying to cool the massive frame as he finally noticed that he'd acquired an audience.

"Get out of here." he muttered, quietly. And was swiftly obeyed. He glared at the door for a few moments longer before his expression fell.

"Slag…" he said, swiftly leaving the sealed doors behind.


	19. When?

-1**Who is this company I keep? Pt 2 "When?"**

The atmosphere around the academy was frenzied. News had come from Praxis that a bombing attack by an unknown assailant had occurred in the downtown area and that there were mass casualties. The Lord Protector had ordered security forces to the area to attempt and control the situation while the Prime sent in medical and relief teams.

Ratchet was, naturally, furious that he was not selected for the assignment.

"Slag it, Prime. I can -help- with this." Ratchet stated over the comm unit.

"I know, Ratchet. And I understand your aggravation with the situation-" 

"Flaking right, I'm aggravated."

"Which is why I'm instructing you to select a secondary team. Your mechs."

"Good, I'll pick a few and-"

"And you will remain at the Academy." Optimus stated.

"Prime!"

"While I appreciate your bravado in wanting to assist with this situation, I do not have the luxury of arguing with you on the matter. You may pick a team but you are not to be on it. Do you understand, Ratchet?"

"…Yes, Prime. I understand." the medic replied, voice resigned but not happy.

"Thank you, old friend. I must go. Peace be."

"And to you." Ratchet stated, pausing a moment. "Prime?"

"Yes?"

"I know you're going. Be careful."

"Of course." Prime answered and shut down communications.

Ratchet stared at the comm unit for several long moments before angrily pushing himself away from the desk.

"Slagging pit." he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face plates with a groan.

"He's not letting you go, is he?" Ironhide said, walking up behind the still-seated medic.

"Frag off." Ratchet replied, not even glancing up at the large mech.

"Ratchet, I'm not looking to quarrel with you."

"Just leave off it, would you?" he said, waving the mech off.

"…fine." Ironhide said, setting a fresh cube down on the table next to the medic and turning to go.

Ratchet stopped, not expecting the rather dejected tone nor the sudden submission to his request, and spun around in his seat.

"What exactly do you get out of fragging me off?"

"A sentence. Some form of communication." Ironhide answered, turning back around.

Ratchet simply gave him a dubious look with a non-committal noise.

"And typically a physical removal from your domain coupled with a new dent via whatever isn't bolted down to the floor." he added after half a moment of thought.

The dubious look turned incredulous and somewhat bemused before Ratchet actually chortled.

"Get out of my sight, you old rust bucket." Ratchet said gruffly, taking the recently-deposited cube and inclining it slightly in mock salute.

Ironhide simply chuckled and exited the med bay, for once, under his own power and willingly. He took a drink from the energon and pondered the very prominent task of selecting personnel to send out to Praxis.

The amusement he'd recently indulged in with the brief, but mildly entertaining, conversation with Ironhide fled and a sense of dread leached it's way into his frame like acid rain. Signing on to his station, Ratchet decided that there would be no rest for him until he felt some sense of peace with sending anyone into what could very quickly evolve into a war zone.

Several groons later, energon cube still half full, Ratchet was beginning to finalize the selections for the secondary medical response team. With a huff of air through the vents, he pinged his comm system.

"Ratchet to Ironhide."

"Confirmed. Go."

"I…need a favor."

"…I'll be right down." Ironhide answered, voice trying to hid some measure of surprise.

"Copy. Out." Ratchet replied, shutting the system off again, and waited.

Less than a breem passed before the courtesy chime was hit on the doors to the medbay proper.

"Enter."

The doors parted, admitting the burly mech from the hallway. Ironhide strode up, optics curious.

"You knocked."

"Shocking, isn't it?"

"Very."

"And here you thought I had no manners."

Ratchet's sigh and lack of retort of any sort turned Ironhide's curious gaze to one of guarded concern.

"What is it? What happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing new, anyway."

"You said you needed a favor?"

"…Yes."

"Fire away."

"You're being awfully cooperative lately." Ratchet said, cautious.

"Contrary to popular belief, as much as you get on my servos, I don't like seeing you as an enemy, Ratchet. Now tell me this favor you want." Ironhide replied

"I've had to compile a team to send to Praxis. Secondary medical team." the medic replied, pausing to gauge Ironhide's reaction. When the mech's optic ridge raised in question, he continued. "I want you to go with them. As protection."

"Ah." he replied, comprehension dawning.

"They're not warriors, Ironhide."

"I know, Ratch, I know. I'll take care of them."

"…You scare me when you are this…pliable."

"And you're scary when you're fragged off. I'm simply enjoying and encouraging the reprieve." came the retort.

"I think you're just trying to get into my circuitry again."

"Are you flirting with me, doc?"

"Oh, please. You're processor is scrambled."

"Is it? So you really are being such pleasant company to convince me to go to Praxis then?" Ironhide asked, tone only half-serious.

"What? No! I'm just…slagging pit, I'm just-" Ratchet fumbled, righteous confusion evident across his faceplates before finally settling on irritation. "You know how to ruin it, don't you?"

"I was only kidding with you…"

"I don't need jokes right now, 'Hide. I need…" the medic replied, voice aggravated but optics confused.

"Hey, easy. Easy, doc. You have my word. I'll keep them safe."

"I know. As much as you twist my wires up, I trust you." Ratchet said. "To protect them." he added quickly.

"See? Flirting."

"You're just hard up for an interface."

"I could see an offer in that."

"Oh, you wish, you over-clocked glitch." Ratchet stated, chuckling.

"Can I ask you something and expect a straight answer?" Ironhide asked a few moments later.

"That entirely depends on the question." Ratchet replied.

"When are you going to talk to me?"

Ratchet took in a long draw of air and leveled his optics on Ironhide's. He knew the mech was referring to one of their more recent blow-by-blow arguments regarding Ratchet's own past.

"Understand this, because I'm saying it only one time." Ratchet started, carefully. "There are things that I cannot deal with right now and what you're asking of me is one of them."

"Then when?"

"I…don't know if ever."

Ironhide released a frustrated air but gave a reluctant nod. "Okay. I'll drop it. For now."

"Thank you. Now go rest up. I don't foresee the team being held here any longer than a pack and go and I don't feel up to tossing 'whatever isn't bolted to the floor'."

"Fine, fine." Ironhide said, putting his hands up in a placating manner. "It's been a long cycle. Refuel with a full ration, would you?" he added, grabbing the old cube and depositing it with the now stale energon on the way out.

He gazed at the now closed doors, curious as to Ironhide's rather placid behavior as of late but more worried now than he thought he would be by putting the mech on the team. With a huff, Ratchet finalized the report and sent it to Prime.


	20. Too Much

**Not Going to Break**

The body count from Praxis was rising with every solar cycle. The secondary team of medics Ratchet had put together had been shipped out just as soon as they could pack and Ironhide had left with them. Despite the numerous, and often extremely loud, arguments they had, the medic trusted the other mech to keep an eye on his medics. However, he still could not completely push down this sense that something was not as it should be and that it involved the party sent to the now burning city. The bi-solar cycle updates from Prime helped. But when, late one cycle, he got the comm from Ironhide, he felt his tanks sink like slag in the smelter.

"Ratchet-"

"What happened? How are my medics? Are you-Is everyone alright?"

"Easy, doc! Everyone is fine. Your medics are all healthy."

"Then what-"

"We've got some cases here that they want to bring back. According to them, they're stable but need "Ward 4 maintenance on priority stat". Whatever that means."

Ratchet sat back a moment. "Ward 4?"

"That's what the pad says." Ironhide said, pausing to deliver direction to someone away from the comm before adding, "I'm assuming that means something?"

"Yes…that's…and the patients are stable?"

"So I'm told."

"When are you arriving?"

"We're sending the patients on ahead. Details to follow. So far, there's been no real problems."

It was another fortnight of solar cycles before the med team and their enlisted 'defense' returned to the Academy. The Ward 4 patients had arrived much sooner and were already undergoing treatment. The long cycles, now not only filled with the instruction of the current students but tending to patients as well, left Ratchet working nearly round the clock and constantly on call.

Ratchet rose goggily from his berth as the door chime rang for the third time. Fully prepared to give the verbal lashing of his career, he palmed the door open. And stopped.

"You uh…you wanted to know when we were all back. And they're all safe. Sorry to wake you." Ironhide said, obviously seeing the near murder in the medic's optics when the door first slid away. The expression had not lasted, however, and had given in to a more shocked countenance. Having delivered his message, the still bedraggled black mech turned to head to his own quarters.

Only to be forcefully yanked back and inside Ratchet's own quarters before he could protest.

"You sorry slagger." Ratchet muttered, engaging the door lock once again and pinning Ironhide to the wall next to it.

"I've tried to hate you." the medic continued.

"I know."

"I can't."

"…I know." Ironhide said, voice quiet.

"This isn't over yet, is it?" Ratchet asked, suddenly unsure as to if he was asking about the situation with Cybertron or the situation they were currently in.

"No…it's not." Ironhide answered, carefully and after a moments thought.

Ratchet dropped his head down to the black mech's shoulder, huffing out from his vents. Things had been building up so quickly on so many levels that the medic wasn't sure how much more news or bad situations he could handle. If there was one thing Ratchet hated, it was feeling powerless to do something. Ironhide hesitated a moment before pulling an arm over the other mech's shoulders. He did not press the medic, knowing full well that the variety of patients sent in from Praxus had managed to get under his plating. Eventually, the moved to the berth to sit. Ratchet kept himself pressed close to the other mech and neither one spoke another word.


	21. Not Enough

**But Already Shattered**

The black mech knew vorns ago when his and Ratchet's "relationship" began. It was a tentative deal, one brought by the pair of them absolutely detesting one another. It evolved into something more like a tenuous friendship and seemed to be developing further. The black mech wasn't planning on fighting it, knowing full well that such tactics never worked when the spark had a say in anything. But for now…for now it wasn't the time.

With a final, soft stroke to the helm now resting on the berth, he sealed the door.

A short, quarter cycle later found Ironhide cleaned and standing before the Prime, Ratchet to the Prime's left. Every other instructor stood awaiting the Prime's words. His visits were rare as was this rather impromptu briefing but even rarer was the grave expression on his countenance.

"A militia sent from Koan has claimed responsibility for Praxus. They've already mobilized towards Altihex and have hit many smaller settlements along the way." Prime said, voice grave as he addressed the Academy instructors, many of which he'd appointed there himself. Ironhide watched the younger mech. There were many things Optimus was leaving out…but the most important, the one that meant the most to the people…

"They cry war. And we must answer."

The crowd was a bustle of activity after that. Mechs and femmes were headed in every direction on taskings set before them. Ironhide moved to Prime's side, quietly offering his support and Prime began speaking to him privately. Ratchet remained standing amongst the fast moving crowd several breems before finally retreating to the inner halls of the Academy.

It was joors later before Ironhide had made himself free from Prime.

Several more solar cycles passed before he'd managed to find Ratchet again.

The medic was in his "domain"…the bay all but cleared. He stood there, optics unfocused and gazing toward the gray, lifeless form residing on the berth. Ironhide recognized it as one of the "Ward 4" mechs brought back from Praxus.

"He was a sparkling." the medic whispered, gaze still locked on the body before him. "A -sparkling-, Ironhide. Not even old enough to see his first real set of upgrades."

Ironhide looked at Ratchet then, seeing something flash across the other mech's optics. It was a look he'd never wanted to acknowledge on the medics face before. Despair.

"Ratchet…" Ironhide started, voice grave and quiet. "Orders have come down."

"You'll go and fight." It wasn't a question. Neither one had any doubts that if these current skirmishes continued, there could be an all out war on their own planet. Already more wounded and dying had been brought to Iacon for treatment.

"Yes." the black mech replied.

"You'll probably die."

"…Doc."

"And there's not a pit slagging thing I can do to stop any of it."

Ironhide maintained his distance from the two forms, watching Ratchet's movements closely. The medic was trembling slightly and his optics fritzed. The black mech had learned long ago that approaching a mech in such a state could get you wounded or worse.

"You asked me something once. About my history."

"Yes. You were a politician?" Ironhide asked, recovering quickly from the topic change.

"Yes, I was. A damn good one, I thought. I knew the game, knew the players. But I couldn't stand it. Nothing I did made a difference. No choice I made could be used to benefit the rest of the population. More often than not, it seemed to make things -worse-."

Ratchet paused then, lightly stroking the helm of the sparkling.

"Always made it worse. They called me 'Ratchet the Hatchet' when I left."

"Ratchet-" Ironhide started, optic widening. He'd heard stories about a councilmember they called "Hatchet" but none of those stories even remotely resembled the mech before him in demeanor and personality. He'd certainly not made the connection.

I had the archives deleted. I left the council chambers myself. I erased my existence in such circles."

"Why?" he replied, disbelief coloring his tone.

Ratchet looked at him then, dropping his arms to his sides.

"Because I wasn't making a difference. I wanted no part of that life. So I changed -everything-."

The black mech took a couple cautious steps forward, approaching the medic with a hand extended.

"You asked who I was hiding from. The answer is me." he replied, dropping his optics back down to the young mech on the table.

Ironhide finished his approach, gently grasping a loose hand at the medic's side and tugging him slowly away from the still cooling frame.

"C'mon, doc. Let's get you out of here."

"No, I can't." Ratchet said, protesting slightly. "I need to prep his frame for…for."

"Patchweld will handle it. You're leaving."

"Slag it, 'hide, I'm not a sparkl-…" Ratchet started, stopping on the final word and giving the table another look.

"I know." Ironhide replied, pausing a moment. "Please?"

A shiver ran through the medics frame but he allowed himself to be led, unresistingly, out of the medbay proper.

They entered Ironhide's quarters, only a few corridors away from the bay itself. After setting the medic down to the berth and retrieving a mild mid-grade cube of energon, Ironhide knelt before him.

"I'm sorry." Ironhide said, apologizing for so many things with just a simple phrase. All the hurt, all the anger, the frustration that the medic had endured over the past several cycles…all summed up in those tiny words.

The medics reaction, however, was nothing he'd anticipated. Anger, probably. Indifference, maybe. But this…this was nothing like what he'd even remotely imagined. Ratchet set his cube upon the berth and -looked- at Ironhide, optics gradually taking on a more feral glint. The next thing the black mech knew, he had been shoved back and was currently being straddled by the other mech.

They had interfaced with each other on numerous occasions (and if you believed the students, numerous surfaces, flat or otherwise). Hands were -everywhere-…shoving aside armor platings to reach the pliable metal underneath and making it feel as though it were burning. He tried returning as good as he got but the medic was in a fervor and for every stroke the black mech managed to land equated into three from his partner. It was fast, frantic and so very different from any of their other joinings in the sense that it felt -lost-. The black mech was nearly so far gone in the haze and anticipation of completion that he nearly offlined at the soft glow that suddenly shone from Ratchet's chest.

He wanted to. He really did. He could feel his spark all but -demanding- to allow it to merge with the proffered glow before it.

Ironhide shuttered his optics and gently placed a hand on the partially separated chest plates of the medic.

"Ratch…you're not thinking this through…"

"The frag I'm not."

Primus, the medic was unbridled emotion when he wanted to be. Ironhide wouldn't complain…he'd even join in this bonding initiation…with the exception of one thing.

"There's a -war- coming, Ratchet."

"I -know- that."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because for once, just -once-, I'm going to act on an impulse and do something…something…fraggit, 'Hide." Ratchet replied, dropping his head onto the black mech's shoulder.

"This 'something' is permanent, doc."

"Really? Thank you for that astounding revelation." the medic replied, raising his head to level the other mech with a sour look and his own patented brand of snark. "You've never really shown any discursion before when 'facing with me."

"That…what? That was-"

"Was what? Nice, casual romp in the berth?" the medic asked, venom lacing his voice.

"Yeah, it was. I thought we both agreed on that…" Ironhide replied, virtual hackles rising against the bait. His optics widened as soon as the words left his vocalizer but the damage was already done and the words could not be retracted.

"…I guess we did."

Ratchet then stood, chest plates closing with a quiet hum of hydraulics, shying away when a confused Ironhide reached for his arm, look imploring.

"If that truly is the case, Ironhide, then I've had quite enough of 'casual romps'." he said, turning and heading out the door of the black mech's quarters before ever giving the other mech a chance to retaliate.

Ironhide didn't follow him.

The following cycle, his shuttle left. Ratchet had not been in the crowd to bid the departing mechs farewell. Ironhide pretended he hadn't noticed.


End file.
